The Difference
by purple-psychopath
Summary: Everyone knows the story of the famous trio and their seventh year, not at Hogwarts. But what of their friends, their families, and all the rest left back at Hogwarts. This story is about Ginny Weasleys 6th year, and doing what is right. This story is for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition.


The Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition

BEATER 2 – Round 5

Ginny Weasley

Optional Prompts:

1. Radio

3. Winter

14. Shadow

* * *

Black robes, black shoes, black pointed hat: Most of Hogwarts held black expressions. We crept through grey halls with grey stone during the blackness of night to turn on the radio and listen to horrible, miserable, darker by the day, black news.

This time it would be two more dead, three more missing, the small group waited anxiously for their favourite segment, Potterwatch. For the first time she wasn't there, she already knew the news. No sightings other than hopeful quackery. Black hair, green eyes, lightning bolt scar: he was safe, and that was what mattered. She knew by now that no news was good news.

Black forest, grey skies, white snow: A splash of red hair. She was laying in the cold crisp powder; rosy red cheeks, pink lips, and a rebellious scarlet and gold tie. Rebellious in this time perhaps, but for the last thousand years the red and gold she wore was a sign of a brave soul, something to be proud of. Now it was a cause for wrath, Death Eater teachers torturing innocent students; anyone who dared to speak out against Voldemort, anyone who refused to learn dark magic, and anyone who was born to the wrong parents. She was all three; too stubborn to remain silent, too kind hearted to practise curses on children, born to bloodtraitors.

"There is nothing wrong with you," she tried to console muggleborns, "It is our worlds government that is corrupt, run by a murdering hypocrite." She told them about Tom Riddle, a half-blood orphan, he was sick in his head; and all his followers were inbred and insane from centuries of selective breeding. When morning came her reassurances would fade and they would walk blank faced and heavy hearted to their classes. Only torture as seemingly endless as it was horrible awaited them there. After hours of playing guinea pig to dozens of students, they were permitted to return to the relative safety of their common rooms.

She received a different treatment. "Where is Potter?" black greasy hair, grey sallow face, gigantic ugly pimpled hook nose. She was no master at occlumency, but it didn't matter, she truly didn't know. He didn't care, and so he repeated the question "Where is Potter?" Dungeon bat, hideous git, MURDERER; she thought her insults as hard as she could manage. His deepening scowl proved that he was reading her thoughts. He leaned closer, his big disgusting nose held a bead of sweat preparing to drop. He barely whispered into her ear, so close they were that the sweat orb smeared itself across her temple. She shuddered in revulsion but her ears were listening, "_I am trying to help him you idiot girl_."

This session would end with the same words as all the others, "Fuck you, Death Eater scum."

"Get out." She would, and as usual the Carrow's would be waiting on her, ravenous to deliver her their favourite spells.

Hogwarts was a murky, miserable, shadow of itself. The corridors were empty, the magic infused castle was equally lifeless as freshly cut stone, the expected creaking of staircases was absent, the usual laughter and rapid footfalls were gone. Pausing on one of many oddly stationary staircases between the second and third floors she thought about her options for the evening.

She could go up, wander through dark halls to the seventh floor, enter the room of requirement, and listen to the news. The news was a depressing thing, how many would be dead this time? How many more would be missing? Perhaps she would hear that Harry and Hermione had been killed. Her brother had of course abandoned them, and she would be delivering a firm and angry talking to him when she returned home for the winter holidays. For now, she didn't want to hear the news; it would all be bad anyway.

Black lake, grey castle, cold frosty ground: A snow angel with its creator still inside, she always ruined them trying to get up anyway. Three more days before she'd see her family, two more nights until she went home, one more day of classes. The day after tomorrow she could get on the train, perhaps there she would find it in herself to smile. Hogwarts wasn't the only murky, miserable, shadow around here.

The day after tomorrow, in the evening when the train arrived she would see her father again. He would take her home where she would see her mother and many of her brothers again. One of them would receive a shouting that their mother was too afraid to give, a shouting to get back to where he belonged. Christmas would be tense without him there, their mother would be angry with her for sending him back into danger, their father would be secretly proud that someone had managed to make his youngest son do the right thing.

Months later, when black hair, green eyes, lightning bolt scar returned to Hogwarts to fight the final battle she would already know that she was staying with him. She couldn't stand to sit back and watch him die, what would she do without his dorky jokes, half-quirked grins, and silly sweet hearted affection? Surely die an old maid. No, it was far better to risk it all doing the right thing than to sit back in fear of the worst. Her mother would screech at her to go back to safety, but she couldn't do that. She would never be able to look at herself without regret if she were to run from this.

On cold winter eves years later she would lay in whatever snow had fallen. Tiny snow angels peppered their yard, they were marks of her children James, Albus, and Lily. Every time she would catch herself thinking of darker times, times of black moods, grey hopes, and white snowflakes falling. Harry would come outside with hot cocoa and a dorky half-quirked grin, he would remind her of better times. Nonetheless, Ginny would know that it was then, many winters ago that she had decided: Doing what is right isn't always easy, but she couldn't have lived with herself if she had chosen what was easy.


End file.
